


AKA Players

by frogfarm



Series: Alias: Hellcat [4]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blood, Everyone Has Issues, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Topping from the Bottom, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: Trish has powers. Jessica deals.Post-2x13, "AKA Playland".





	AKA Players

**Author's Note:**

> I'd had the vague notion to include Trish's transformation to Hellcat in this series, but hadn't yet gotten any ideas. Thanks to pgsca for inspiring by suggesting and requesting.  
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>> _All the world's a stage  
>  And all the men and women, merely players..._  
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Past a certain hour of the evening, any side of town can look like the wrong one. At least for most people. For an alcoholic superhuman with a metric asston of issues, one side is pretty much like any other. Apart from the people, who universally suck. This is the kind of positive thinking that keeps a person like Jessica Jones out on the streets, up until the wee hours, and well the fuck away from anything resembling a twelve-step meeting room.

Tonight is at least slightly off the beaten path. Trish had gotten a tip from a friend, highly reliable, that something funky would be going down tonight at this location. Abandoned industrial areas aren't Jessica's idea of a good time, but she's got a relatively comfortable spot across the vacant lot, holed up in the used car dealer's shack with a pair of binoculars and a thermosful of screaming orgasms. Her only excuse is that the corner store still hasn't gotten in fresh whiskey. She'd refused to play Cover Your Shame at the register, glaring at the cashier, silently daring her to even look like she was thinking to say _girl drink drunk_.

Screw cirrhosis. At this rate, she has more to fear from diabetes.

Something catches the corner of one eye, a fleeting movement out under the streetlamp. She's ready to jump to her feet, go running out the door at full speed, when she realizes it's just a couple of deer. Not actually an uncommon sight this far from town. She settles back in with a sigh, unscrewing the cap to her thermos.

No. Wait --

The factory's main entrance gate is a few hundred feet in from the street, shrouded in darkness. As she watches, the light shines again, bouncing high in the air and falling back down.

Jessica lowers the binocs with a frown. The glow doesn't reappear, and she mulls over her options, drumming her fingers on the faux wooden desk made of cheap plastic. Fucking Luke -- and Matt, and Danny -- had all made her pinky swear that she'd call in the rest of "the team", or at least one of them, if a situation looked to be escalating a little too quickly. It's uncomfortably close to feeling like a family. After the last few weeks, that's the last goddamn thing she needs in her already hopelessly screwed-up life.

Except there is Trish. That much is good, that much is true. At least when it's working; when they're working. She had Luke, after all, and so it's only fair that Trish had Malcolm. They've done worse things to each other. To themselves.

She leaves the thermos and the rest of her gear, slipping from the rickety structure under a sliver of moonlight. Keeping close to the building, she makes it to the last available hiding spot, then squints across the street. Measuring the distance.

Her feet leave the ground with a grunt of effort. The weightless feeling lasts barely two seconds, all told; just enough to glory in the sensation of the earth beneath her flying out and away, rushing back up to meet her with an exhilarating thud of impact.

Jessica holds her breath and doesn't move a muscle as she crouches on one knee, concealed in shadow. Straining her ears for the faintest hint of sound, she can make out a faint and irregular hammering, the strike of metal on metal. As she listens it comes to a crescendo, breaking off with a ragged, grating squeal.

Another leap -- a less impressive one, this time -- is enough to clear the fence. Her subsequent landing is far quieter, and Jessica peers at the sprawling set of buildings ahead, trying to discern signs of life. 

Her leg has almost fallen asleep when the sign comes. Jessica shakes out the burning, buzzing feeling in her muscle, watching the light upstairs slowly move from window to window in a methodical sweep, down the length of the building.

_Jessica Jones. You've captured this nefarious felon before they could rob this abandoned factory blind. The property owners extend to you their deepest and heartfelt gratitude, right before they torch the place to collect the insurance. What are you going to do next?_

Her lip curls as the light blinks out.

Apparently?

 _Not_ go to Disneyland.

The rusted-out door hangs open, far enough to allow entrance without risking a squeaky hinge. Patches of tile flooring are missing, exposing ancient wooden timbers underneath. Jessica casts her eye about for the stairs, finding herself increasingly frustrated when they fail to readily reveal themselves.

She freezes at the faint creak, directly overhead.

A whisper from her right. Fabric on metal, the ringing zing of something sliding and as Jessica turns now she can see the fireman's pole, extending upward to the second floor. The pole being slid down by -- or something like that, because fuck English -- a hot blonde in a sinuous, clinging bodysuit that is mostly dark blue, with bright yellow accents reminiscent of jet flames on a car. The blonde is in the hair that cascades out and around a cat mask covering most of the woman's face, which more reminds her of a _luchadore_. 

"So you look like a supervillain." Jessica tries not to sound too irritated. "I should warn you that I have a really low speech tolerance."

The grin that spread over the blonde's face is pretty damn irritating. Also a familiar one. Which Jessica realizes at the exact moment that hand meets mask and mask comes off, revealing --

"It's Patsy!"

The outrageous outburst of happiness couldn't be any more out of place. The more so because it seems genuine; for the first time in years, Trish's hallowed and hated showbiz catchphrase doesn't come across like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It's also light-years away from the outrageous costume, looking more like a professional piece of work the longer Jessica stares at it.

"What the fuck."

The flat pronouncement leaves her mouth before she can stop herself. Instead of stemming the tide, it unleashes the floodgates. Trish just stands there, wearing that proud and stupid grin, waiting for her to run through the litany. It takes a little longer than usual, but eventually Jessica peters out, staring in silence at her best and now only friend as she simmers in a toxic stew of anger and confusion.

Trish strikes a pose, hands overhead like a Price is Right showgirl. "Well?"

"What in the actual fuck." Jessica shakes her head, unable to wrap it around one bit of this. "Is this a porno? Are we on candid camera?"

"Not yet." Trish folds both arms over her chest with a petulant frown. "Do you want it to be?"

"I want my life to make sense." Befuddled, she draws closer. Her eyes are starting to adjust, making it easier to discern the shape of Trish's body under the tight-fitting material. 

Trish is still frowning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean -- Jesus, Trish!" Part of her says this has to be some kind of test. A sick little game, just to see how far she'll go. "Isn't it enough that you're fucking me?"

Trish looks ready to retort before thinking better of it. Her anger turns to a pensive look as she gazes down at the mask still held in her hand.

"You may not need an outfit, but I do." Trish holds up the mask between them, brandishing it with a hint of anger in her eyes. "How many years did I help you test your powers? How much of my stuff did you break?"

"You could afford it --" A fleeting thought latches on. "Powers?"

"You owe me, Jones."

Trish leans back and grabs the pole with both hands. Her entire body lifts off the ground, standing straight out in a perfect ninety-degree flag. As Jessica watches, the angle increases, until Trish is holding herself perfectly upside down with only the grip of her hands, the tendons in her forearms standing out through the thin, tight layer of cloth. All the while staring Jessica down, never once so much as a blink.

"And now you're gonna help test mine."

"Well shit, Patsy." A reluctant smile spreads across Jessica's unwilling face. "Why didn't you say so?"

  


* * *

  


"Three weeks." She still can't believe it. "Three weeks you've had fucking _powers?_ And this is the first you tell me?"

"It took two weeks to get the costume." Trish bats away her roaming hand, feigning coy modesty. "I couldn't just order it off the rack."

"Friends in Stark places." Jessica peers at the fabric in closer examination. "So does it do anything? You know, extra super?"

"Just makes me look cool." A preening Trish proves this to be more than true. "Although --"

"Bad ass." Tiny metallic claws adorn each finger of both gloves, nearly invisible. "You could really put a crimp in someone's day with those."

"They're supposed to be a last resort." Trish sounds confident enough despite the doubt in her eyes. "I don't know what they're made of."

"No?" She holds Trish's hand to her cheek, gently running the tips over her flesh. 

Trish looks torn, but allows her to remove the gloves. "All I know is -- stronger than steel, not as strong as the captain's shield."

"Not bad." She quashes the urge to ask who or what Trish has had to put out in trade for these kind of favors. Between this and the custom bondage gear, it's more than enough to trigger anyone's suspicion. No need to be a jealous freak about it.

"So what exactly are your powers?"

"Olympic-level gymnastic ability with enhanced reflexes, coordination and spatial awareness." Trish rattles this off with practiced ease. "Also -- sensitivity to some psychic phenomena, and...above average resistance to mental control."

Jessica can't help a snort. "According to who?"

Trish has the good grace to look embarrassed. "Doctor Stephen Strange."

"You talked to _him_ \--" Jessica throws up her hands. "Fuck, never mind."

"Well, he came to me." Trish dusts off the counter before hopping up on it, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl. "He said he tries to make contact with everyone in the city who shows, quote, any significant psychic ability. Even just being aware of it like me." Her jaunty mood wavers briefly. "I'm way down the food chain, so -- I think it's good to know. What else is out there."

"Great. You and Danny will have even more to talk about." Jessica rescues her cutting edge comment with an attempt at a compliment. "So...I hear you got moves."

"Maybe." Trish purses her lips, almost like she's blowing a sarcastic bubble of chewing gum. "What's it to you?"

"You gonna show me?" From the corner of one eye Jessica looks her up and down, head to toe, every last lithe and curvaceous inch of her crazy, crazy friend. "Or just run your mouth all night?"

Trish puts her hands on the counter and kicks up her heels, launching herself into space.

Jessica finds herself too fascinated to make the slightest of smartass comments as she watches. Teenage Patsy had been athletic despite occasional bouts of bulimia; reasonably light on her heels, if not the world's most enthusiastic dancer when paired off with a partner. The power and precision on exhibition here is nothing short of phenomenal, akin to watching Jackie Chan in his prime. If he was a smoking hot blonde.

"Nice." She delivers this deadpan as Trish finishes up an intricate set of flips and twirls, landing on one hand and grinning up at her. "Can you do it blind?"

Trish gives her a Look, all the more fetching for being upside down.

"Hey, I'm just asking for a friend." Jessica holds up her hands. "You don't have to prove anything. Not to me."

"Somehow?" Trish's dry response is only slightly strained, her every muscle standing out as she holds herself aloft, legs slightly akimbo. "I doubt that."

Abruptly she's falling in a controlled crumple, going into a roll before taking a flying leap over the edge of the catwalk. Jessica nearly launches herself afterward when she sees Trish grab onto the dangling chains, swinging high into the rafters, disappearing from sight.

She can hear movement up above, little grunts of exertion with each fresh scuffle and squeak. Then Trish is falling, dropping down beside her in a crouch and straightening with a grin, pointing to her tightly shut eyelids.

"Impressive." Jessica does mean it. "I mean, not like _Daredevil_ impressive -- but still."

"Them is fightin' words, Miz Jones." Trish lands a playful smack on Jessica's ass, resting her chin on her shoulder and gazing up with puppy dog eyes. "Ah challenge you, suh. My honor is at stake."

"You were never a scout and you can't spell honor." Jessica's response is automatic, the product of years and habit.

"Come on, Jewel. What's the matter?" Trish has dropped the accent, but the playfulness remains, almost cocky. "Because I don't think you're afraid."

"No?" Every nerve in her body is on high alert at the sound of that name. A relic of their misspent adolescence, the shared fantasy of their own private fiction had blossomed with Jessica's own powers, reaching fresh heights of creativity with each newly hatched escape plan. An unhealthy proportion of these had included matricide as their key element, which only made it funnier and more awful when she visited Trish in the dorms for a private film festival that included _Heavenly Creatures_.

 _I just knew she was in Titanic._ Trish had stared at the screen in a daze as the credits rolled. _I honestly had no idea._

 _We didn't have to watch it._ Jessica was unable to meet her gaze. _That was on us._

Trish hadn't replied. Eventually Jessica said something like if anyone had ever deserved a brick to the head, it was Dorothy. Trish laughed, but it wasn't the funny kind of laugh, and they ended up having to dig out the original Muppet Movie in order to properly ease the existential heartache.

"No."

She comes back to the present. Trish is still staring at her, head cocked to the side. Jessica feels like she's being weighed in the balance, assayed and tested for purity.

"I don't think you're afraid," Trish continues. Jessica's skin tingles as the other woman pulls down her shirt, planting a soft kiss on the exposed joining of neck and shoulder. "I think you're jealous."

It takes a second for her reactions to catch up with her brain. The result is an instinctive roll of the eyes, a wordless burst of susurrance.

"No?" A gleam in Trish's eye, and she shrugs. "Okay."

"Screw you." Jessica's disdain is as automatic as her sarcasm. At this point, it's like breathing. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The look on Trish's face isn't a pretty one. "All those years I wasted? Your faithful sidekick. And all you ever wanted was a piece of my --"

"Should have thought of that before you went down the dark side." More than a few memories are beginning to jog loose, encouraged by the power of banter. The best of their extemperaneous roleplay sessions had always contained a heavy dose of reality. Some days, it was the only way to deal with it.

"Hellcat." She tests it on her tongue; weighing and measuring Patsy Walker, finding her wanting. "Who picks that kind of name? Baby's first supervillain?"

"At least I have one." The defiant reply is an immediate one, a sure sign of being cut to the quick. And Trish does look stung, even as she stands tall and proud in her skintight clothing.

"I'll make sure they spell it right on the admission form."

"What are you saying?" And Trish is actually backing away from her. Smart girl.

"I'm saying I'm here to bring you in." Jessica offers a cold smile. "Cops want you alive. Didn't say anything about conscious."

"I am not a villain." Trish bites off each word, enunciating her cold anger with the utmost clarity. "I'm a hero. Just like you."

The abrupt, barking laugh from Jessica startles even her.

"I'm no hero." She fumbles for her lines. "You're just a job to do."

"Are you kidding me?" Trish is still moving, twenty feet from the railing and closing. If she makes it over the edge it'll all be over. At least the way Jessica's seeing it.

"I bring you in, I pay my rent, I stock up on booze."

She crouches, ready to spring.

"End of story."

Trish turns to flee.

Jessica's fist meets the floor. Hard enough to make her gasp in pain, and to make the floor itself crack and buckle and buck like a bronco, throwing Trish into the air.

That's her signal.

Now.

She jumps. Hard enough to almost fly; not hard enough to knock Trish completely unconscious as their bodies meet, grabbing the other woman before she can hit the floor and taking her down in a graceful rolling motion she probably couldn't duplicate on her best day, not in a million years of trying.

She stares down at Trish, one leg between hers, hands pinned against the floor like they're superglued. 

"Not used to seeing things from this angle, are you?"

"It's been a while." Trish sounds slightly out of breath, panting with exertion. "But we all start at the bottom."

Her breathing slows as she gives a subtle shimmy.

"Work our way up."

Jessica's eyebrows contract in puzzlement. "Are you actually trying to _fuck_ your way out of this?"

"Why not?" And Trish continues in that slow, maddening undulation, gazing up at her with softening eyes. "You let me go, and...I can make it worth your while." 

"Huh." She pretends to consider. "So how many people have you made that offer to?" 

Trish's eyes go big. Then narrow, blood draining from her face as the muscles in her forearms tense under Jessica's grip. 

"If you weren't holding me down?" Trish sounds ready to spit with anger. "I'd slap you." 

The apology that blooms on Jessica's tongue is immediately swallowed, before she can say why. Instead she bends down for a kiss. Nothing possessive or frantic, at least is her intent; just a loving gesture, to help restore balance. 

Trish turns her head at the last second and Jessica pulls back, knowing she looks hurt by it, not giving a damn. Her grip on Trish's wrists is iron, unwavering, allowing no movement without more pain. 

"Sometimes?" Jessica swallows, feeling the warmth between Trish's legs pressed against her thigh. "I just want to fuck you like you do me." 

A faint chuckle greets this, though Trish isn't smiling. 

"Why don't you?" 

Jessica shuts her eyes. It doesn't help. 

"You know why." 

"That's different." Trish's voice is softer, still uncompromising. 

"Doesn't feel that way." 

She opens her eyes. Trish is giving her the world's most patient and understanding look, and Jessica can feel her stupid heart about to melt as she leans down for that kiss -- 

A guttural howl tears from her throat. Blinding agony, fingernails raking down her face thank God she took off those gloves and Trish is shoving her off, scrambling to her feet and leaping away. 

Her fingers encircle one slender ankle. Then they both come crashing down, Trish struggling with all her might as Jessica crawls on top of her, pinning her down and shoving her cheek into the broken, jagged tiles. Her left arm snakes around Trish's neck, right hand forcing her thighs apart, grabbing her crotch through the spandex. 

"God damn it!" It's fury now that blinds her, near tears from rage alone as filth spills unchecked from her mouth, from her very soul. "You want to act like a fucking whore? Shake that ass in front of me all goddamn day, well I'll fucking well treat you like one! And whores -- get -- _fucked!_ " 

She barely manages to hold on to her own control, tearing through the cloth and impaling Trish on three fingers before pulling out, sucking off the juices as Trish sobs, little hiccups punctuating her wordless cries. The last vestige of sanity keeps her from really forcing the issue, but four fingers seems just about right. Especially when Trish's wailing begins to change in pitch and Jessica growls in response, holding herself rigid and unmoving as Trish fucks herself back on her hand with frightening violence, until her screams echo throughout the deserted factory, across the surrounding fields and up into the night sky. 

"Jesus --" There's blood on her hand. Not a lot, and Trish was probably about to start anyway. But Jessica can't stop staring, nausea coiling and clenching her up inside. 

"Don't you dare --" And Trish is hugging her, holding tight with all her feeble human strength; tears and snot running freely, not a shred of dignity to spare. She could easily break free and yet Jessica sits there, holding Trish close to her heart and staring at her hand on the other woman's shoulder, the pale pink streaks a stain upon her flesh. 

Trish nuzzles into her neck. And Jessica can feel her heart swell with pain, even before the words. 

"Don't ever apologize." 

**Author's Note:**

> The first installment of this series that wasn't a response to the Annual Femslash Kink Meme. Somehow, this feels significant.


End file.
